Falter
by Nikkette
Summary: Unrelated to Bully. He would never know the exact moment, and neither would she. But somewhere along the line, his strength began to weaken, and her resolve began to crumble. Two-shot.
1. Her

**A/N: I honestly have noooo idea where this came from, it literally zapped itself into my brain D: I had no further ideas for this couple, and then Inspiration slapped me in the face and told me to crank this out before Easter. Granted, that didn't happen, but here it is.**

**Anyway, this is kind of a mashup of all the alternate ideas I was toying with for a DT story before I wrote Bully. It is NOT related to Bully.**

**WARNING: OOCness ahead. Maggie is not her usual badass self and Terry's not so mean, so read at your own risk (*^*)**

**Hopefully you'll enjoy it, because ****I just don't know anymore (╯°^°）╯︵ ┻━┻**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Drillbit Taylor. Or Jane Eyre.**

* * *

Chapter 1: Her~

* * *

1.

She was six when she first saw him.

She had been playing in the front yard when a moving van pulled up across the street. She had grabbed hold of her pink stuffed rabbit, got to her feet and ran out to the curb as the mysterious new strangers - two adults and one child - exited their vehicle. He was not much older than she, and at the time thought they could be great friends.

She had grown excited and filled with glee as he came trotting up to her, looking both ways before crossing the street. He came to stand at the edge of the curb, just in front of her, and eyed her curiously. She had become awkward and fidgety under his gaze, she remembered, and had not noticed when his eyes lingered downwards to the stuffed treasure she held in one arm.

He had not said a word. Without warning or incentive, he snatched the fluffy bunny from her loose hold, smiled, and ran off. She barely had time to mourn the loss of her only friend as her mother called her back inside for dinner, to which she numbly obeyed. In her shock, she remembered, quite clearly, looking back across the street. He was nowhere to be found.

She would not see Mrs. Periwinkle for a very long time.

* * *

2.

She was in school the second time she saw him.

She had been doodling idly in her notebook when the teacher announced a new student. She immediately looked up, her curiosity quashed when she caught sight of _him_. He wasn't looking at her, merely staring at the one empty seat in the back that would soon be his.

Gradually he scanned the faces, his gaze backtracking as it rested on her. His big eyes squinted, then widened as he remembered her. Then he did something she would never forget: he smiled. He smiled the biggest smile his premature face muscles could manage. The knowing, tell-all smile that said he remembered full well what he had done to her - what he had stolen - and he wasn't sorry. He was proud of it. Proud as proud could be.

At that moment one thing became clear to her own six-year-old brain: she wasn't about to get that bunny back any time soon.

* * *

3.

Her ninth birthday was when everything changed.

She had just blown out the candles on her cake when there came a knock at the door. Her mother, wondering who it could be, walked over and answered, cracking the door open. She heard a woman's voice, and it was then that she saw _him_. He was hiding behind his mother's legs, peering inconspicuously into the room beyond.

His face reddened as he realized he had been caught by her stare, and he wasted no time in sending an angry glare at her before hiding further behind his mother. When they were done with their exchanges, her mother came back into the room, but not empty handed. In her hands was a fairly large box, wrapped - albeit poorly - in festive birthday paper. It was handed to her with little care, and she shook it with even less.

Though immensely curious, she was no fool. He would always give her 'gifts', wrapped or not, and they were always a part of some dastardly prank. She had learned early on not to trust him, but she always ended up opening the wrapped boxes. Not because she was naive, but because she was curious. Inherently, uncontrollably curious.

Shaking the box again, she held her ear to it. It made no sound; not a rustle, nor a thud. And that made her all the more suspicious. Gulping down her curiosity, she held the box tightly in front of her.

And tossed it carelessly onto the floor.

* * *

4.

It was two whole days before she opened it.

After her birthday party, her parents had informed her that they would be moving. She was elated; she would no longer have to deal with _him_, and she had no friends to miss anyway. They were only moving an hour away, they told her, but it was enough for her.

And so, on the eve of their move, she found the courage to finally open the unopened birthday present, the first of its kind. She figured that, in the end, she would be far away - so far away that he would never be able to mock or prank or laugh at her ever again - so there was really no harm in letting her curiosity get the best of her one last time.

She made quick work of the wrapping paper, revealing a cardboard box underneath. It had bold black letters printed on the side that read: 'PLATES'. Plates? Why would he give her plates? She tried to comfort herself with the thought that he had probably just used an old box out of the house because he was too lazy to find anything else, but knowing him and his devious mind, it did little to help the more probable idea that he was just using it to toy with her fragile mind.

Mustering up the courage that she had had just moments before, she took a breath, and, fearing the worst, opened the box. What lay inside, unprotected by even the smallest sheet of tissue paper, shocked and horrified her to the core: it was Mrs. Periwinkle. She hesitated in picking her up; it may have been sabotaged. The stuffed rabbit was hardly stuffed anymore; the micro beads that sat inside its tummy were long ago squashed and worn away to nothing.

Sadly, it was no longer fluffy either. Its once soft synthetic fur was now matted and dirty and dull. She moved to hold it up to her face, but was horrified to find that as she did so, the left eye came out. Any feelings of happiness or regret towards him immediately ceased, and were replaced with feelings of sadness and anger. She held the rabbit up to her chest, squeezing tightly.

She now officially hated him.

* * *

5.

After they moved, she was much happier.

She spent seven long and lovely years attending a new school district, with new people and new friends. She no longer cried herself to sleep, or felt a terrible knot in her stomach, or lived in constant fear of what was in store for her the next day. And then her parents told her they were moving. Again. Back to their old neighborhood, nonetheless.

She couldn't help arguing, fighting them every step of the way on the matter. She calmed down after a few days. Her mother had comforted her with the fact that it had been so long, he may not even live there anymore. Everyone moved out of that house eventually. He probably _didn't_ live there anymore, and she was just paranoid.

At least, that's what she told herself.

* * *

6.

When they hopped out of the moving truck, she took a look at their 'new' home.

It was the one she had grown up in. The exact. Same. One. Right across the street from _him._

She nearly fainted.

* * *

7.

On her first day of school as a sophomore, she glanced at the house across the street.

It certainly didn't _look_ vacant. She eyed the black Mustang in the driveway before getting on the bus. She felt an onslaught of butterflies and her stomach lurched uneasily as the bus driver began to pull away. She nervously searched the faces as she sat down in her seat, failing to find anyone resembling _him._

It was fourth grade all over again.

* * *

8.

She had made it through an entire week of school before she saw him.

She was sitting in a corner in the library, trying to study for a test, when he walked by her table. He didn't recognize her. He looked at her as he passed by, and he didn't seem to have the faintest clue as to who she was. She hadn't seen him in years, but she _knew_.

His face had matured greatly, but he still had a hint of boyishness to his features. His hair was virtually the same, and it was that prominent feature that gave him away. It was him. Their eyes met, and as he regarded her coolly as he passed by she recognized the unmistakable glint they held.

They reminded her of a cold knife.

* * *

9.

She noticed him every day at school after that.

She later learned that it was_ his_ Mustang that sat in the driveway, and that his parents were more often than not 'away' on business trips. She wondered how he got around, living by himself like that, and she was shocked to find that he was a year older than her; technically an adult.

He may not have recognized her, but she avoided him like black plague. She was always going out of her way to stay away from him. It was taxing, and it wore her down faster than she could imagine, but it was worth it. She may not have been able to make any friends, but it was worth it. Her grades may have slipped, but it was worth it.

Anything to stay away from him.

* * *

10.

It was on a Monday when her death sentence came. In Science.

The teacher was assigning partners for a project, which would count for 70% of their final grade. Her name was called. She stood up, hoping that they would shout out a 'Danny' or 'Rachel', anyone besides the one person she had worked so hard to steer clear of, and that she could quell the fear and nausea pitted in the bottom of her stomach. Her hopes were in vain.

The teacher called out _his_ name. He stood up, and her stomach plummeted, her insides clenching painfully in terrible discomfort. He walked over to her work station, and she stood stalk still, rigid and frozen in her spot, unable to even turn her head and face him. She began to sweat. She numbly sat down, too afraid to even look him in the eye.

She felt like puking.

* * *

11.

She avoided him like Death now, even going so far as to skip out on lunch, instead hiding in the bathroom until her next class.

She dreaded the thought of having to spend time with her tormentor, but she knew it was inevitable. She couldn't fail a grade just because she was scared to death of her new lab partner. Her parents wouldn't let her.

It didn't stop her, however, from trying.

* * *

12.

She had avoided him for so long that it had caused him to have to track her down and find her.

He had cornered her in the library, seeming very annoyed, and told her they needed to get started on their project. He looked her straight in the eyes the entire time, seeming to have no recollection of who she was, but she didn't dare look at him. Not once. She couldn't. Not with his penetrating stare and calculating gaze.

Somehow she knew, that if she looked at him - even once - he would know.

* * *

13.

She wasn't quite sure how, but she had somehow managed to convince him to come to her house for their project.

She didn't remember what she'd said, or even that her lips moved at all, but he agreed. She was sure he thought her strange - she was always quiet and looked at the floor when around him - so she was surprised when he had said yes. She supposed that they were so far behind (because she had held it off for so long) that perhaps he just didn't care and wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

She realized later that maybe the library would have been a better choice - going to her house may incidentally jog his memory, and the last thing she wanted was for him to resume his torment on the victim who got away - but quickly disposed of the thought because, after all, her parents would be there. Nothing bad ever happened when she was around her parents. She would be better off at home, in familiar territory.

She felt safer already.

* * *

14.

Their first study session did not go particularly well.

He had assumed that she had chosen her place because she already had all of the materials needed for their project. This was not the case. They spent over an hour in her room, at her desk, attempting to brainstorm but failing miserably. It became apparent that he was frustrated by her overly quietness and lack of input, so when he tried to challenge her on an idea for the project he just ended up arguing with himself.

At the end of the day, they could only agree on one thing: what they were going to _do_ for their project. It would be an erupting volcano, cliche as it was. It was simple, easy, sure to get a passing grade. But most of all it was something that didn't require a whole lot of teamwork. They could both go their separate ways in constructing it without having to be around each other a whole lot, and that sounded good to her.

When he left that day, angry and frustrated and annoyed, she couldn't help but feel the exact opposite of those things. She watched from her bedroom window as he crossed the street to his house, and let out a breath she'd been holding since thirty seconds ago. He was finally gone.

She could have cried with relief.

* * *

15.

Another week passed and things were going as planned.

She couldn't avoid him anymore at school, as he had already found all of her hiding places, and she saw him much more often. They never talked or chatted, and he made no effort to. Occasionally he would ask her about something related to their project, to which she would give the shortest, most efficient answer possible.

She began to grow slightly more comfortable in his presence. He never teased or pranked her, and she saw him do no such thing to any of the other students, but he had a cold countenance about him, as if surrounded by a layer of ice, and she was still wary. She figured that if he hadn't recognized her by now, he never would, and her guard dropped ever so slightly, by the smallest degree, to the point where she no longer tensed when he came within walking distance of her.

She would never, however, hold tight to the idea that he had changed.

* * *

16.

It was a Tuesday, she remembered, when things started to go south.

They were nearing the end of their project, and he had suggested they go to his place instead of hers - he already had everything they needed, and it would be silly and time-consuming to move everything from his house to hers. She remembered a bad feeling in her stomach, like she knew that it was a bad idea, a road that could lead nowhere good, but she had (reluctantly) agreed.

When she finally got the courage to go outside, walk across the street, and knock on his door, she felt - even more than before - that it was a terrible mistake. She was thinking heavily about running back across the road, to safety, when he opened the door. She kept her eyes down as he silently looked her over, and there was a distinctly irritable sigh on his end before he let her in.

He led her upstairs and into what she could only assume was his bedroom. She tried not to look around too much, but she had never had the pleasure (or displeasure) of seeing inside her enemy's fortress. She was not amazed or astounded at how clean and expensive everything looked - it was the suburbs, after all - but she wondered how much it had changed over the years. Was it like this seven years ago? Her musings were cut short as she came to face his desk, their work station for the project.

It was laden with all sorts of items and tools and directions. She noted that there was only one chair to sit in, and she had wondered if he had expected her to stand the entire time they built the volcano, but her thoughts were halted when he suddenly went downstairs and disappeared for a few minutes. He reappeared in the doorway, shuffling past her with a chair in hand. He set it beside his, and motioned for her to sit down. She silently obeyed, keeping her eyes on the chair.

They had been working efficiently for about an hour, if she remembered correctly, when the incident happened. She had dropped something - whether it was paper, clay, or something else entirely, she couldn't remember - and they had both bent down below the desk to pick it up. She let him reach for it, and was about to stand back up when he suddenly held it out to her in an attempt to hand it back. She sat crouched, unmoving, staring at the object he held - it may have been a pencil; she remembered it being small - and then she made the dreaded mistake.

She looked at him. His eyes widened considerably when she did this, probably in shock, because she hadn't looked him in the eye since the day she had discovered him in the library for the first time. They both stared, frozen in their places, and she felt an onslaught of self consciousness as he snapped out of his daze and began roaming his eyes over her face, quickly studying every feature as though he would never get the chance to do so again. And then it happened.

Suddenly his gaze snapped back to her eyes, and his own widened further in recognition. And she could tell that, in that moment, he knew. He knew who she was, knew what he had done to her, remembered. She sat there, stomach moving to her throat, and time paused for a few agonizing seconds. And then, snapping back to reality, she gathered herself, stood up, and turned.

She ran.

* * *

17.

She was able to avoid him for four days after that.

She took extra special care in staying away from the places he frequented, and extra_ extra_ special care in blending in with the crowd at the places she _couldn't_ avoid him, like the cafeteria. Class was no problem, because there could be no talking or conversing in the first place, but she knew that she couldn't keep it up forever.

And she was right.

* * *

18.

He confronted her on the seventh day, in the library.

He had cornered her much the same way as he had before, when she put off doing their project together for as long as she could. He had looked very determined, she remembered, and she, she was sure, looked very frightened. She contemplated running, or screaming, or yelling for help; anything that would get him away from her. But she stood frozen, heart hammering hard in her chest, watching as he purposely stalked up to her.

He came to stand about a foot away from her, face serious as she all but trembled before him, hand shaking slightly as she slowly put back a book she was thinking about reading. She wasn't really sure why she was so afraid of him; maybe it was because now that they were grown he was just so much _bigger_ than her, or perhaps because of all of the emotional trauma she suffered at his hands as a child. Whatever the case, she was scared beyond belief, and she waited with bated breath as he contemplated what to say.

What he did surprised her. Crossing the border of distance between them, he reached out to the shelf of books beside her, delved his hand in between the many titles, and pulled out the book she had been holding not five minutes ago. He brought it back to his side of the invisible barrier that separated them, briefly turned it over in his hands, and inspected it. He held it out to her, and after a few seconds she hesitantly took it.

"It's a good book." He'd said.

And then he brisquely turned around, and walked off. She let out the breath that had threatened to burst her lungs, and after he had disappeared from sight she looked down at the cover: Jane Eyre. She wondered when he had developed even the slightest interest in literature, and even more so a liking for contemporary romance novels. She moved to put it back, untrusting of his taste in books, but something - she wasn't sure what - made her pause, then slowly reel it back into her arms. Then, on a whim, she walked over to the librarian, pulled out her card, and checked it out.

She enjoyed the book very much. Once she had cracked it open she found that she couldn't put it down. It took her three days to read it. It probably would have been one if she had been able to settle down with it over the weekend, but this was not the case. She read it every chance she got; on the school bus, at lunch, in the library. When she was finished, she actually felt the urge to read it again.

But then she thought of him. And the mere fact that he had recommended it to her - save the fact that she had already been considering checking it out herself - stayed her hand.

She took it back that very same day.

* * *

19.

The next time they crossed paths, she noticed a very inherent difference in his behavior. She had been late in getting to class that day, and just as she ran to catch the closing door, he appeared from inside the classroom. He said nothing, holding the door for her as she caught up. She almost immediately slowed her pace, but not in fear. She felt the oncoming wave of confusion wash over her as she came up to him, stopping just a few feet away as she stared at him.

This time it was _he_ who kept his eyes down, and as she studied him coolly she noticed that his usual aura of distance and coldness had all but evaporated.

She took a step, paused, and went inside.

* * *

20.

Over the next few days he continued to surprise her.

If he didn't hold the door for her one day, he would hold her books for her the next. He gave her much more space, no longer hunting her down whenever he needed something - usually input for their project. He had started to send her little smiles whenever they saw each other, and once he had even complimented her hair. It had gotten to the point where, over time, it was almost expected of him to be courteous to her.

And that scared her.

* * *

21.

After giving it more thought, she started to become more anxious of him.

What if it was a trick? She wouldn't initially think him to be so cunning, but she also wouldn't put it past him. As the days passed, she grew more and more suspicious of his intentions, and over the weekend, when she had all of her thoughts to herself - when she _really _had time to think -she was convinced he was the Devil. She tried to calm herself down before Monday came, but she was able to do little more than work up a stomach ache.

When morning came, and she found herself staring cautiously at him as he held the door for her, she had spiraled her nerves into a train wreck. She felt a nervous sweat come on whenever he walked by, and she dreaded the very thought of having to keep her guard up for an oncoming attack. Her stomach was in so many knots she wasn't sure if she would have to make a dash for the bathroom - or the trashcan. In the end she made it through the day.

But just barely.

* * *

22.

He came to talk to her after the third day.

They were eating outside that day, just behind the school, when he had walked up to her table. He hesitated, as though unsure of himself, before sitting down across from her. He was quiet, lacing his hands together in front of him as he looked down at the table. She wondered what it was that warranted breaking the unspoken boundary between them, but she already knew.

Finally, he opened his mouth. "What are we going to do about the project?"

Honestly, she didn't know. She knew what she _wanted_ to do, and that was to forget about the entire thing and run far away. But that would never come to fruition. So, she said the only thing that came to mind: the truth.

"I don't know."

He spoke again, quicker this time, surer of what he was going to say. "We need to finish it."

Somehow, stating the obvious spoke more volumes to her than anything else ever could. She still wanted to run, to be free of his presence - the constant irritation in her side - but she knew that he was right. She needed to be rid of this beast, to kill it, to get it over and done with. She replied in all seriousness:

"Okay."

* * *

23.

They met after school every day after that, to work on their project.

It felt as though a weight had been lifted, and she found that in the coming days, it was much easier to be around him. They still met at his house, and for some unknown reason she was fine with this. They worked and worked and worked, and it ended up taking them three days to get it just right. They had ruined the first volcano, and it set them back until he could go out and get more supplies.

They were nearly finished when it happened. She was checking things over to make sure they had done everything right, waiting for him to come back from the bathroom. She was very focused on a particular section of the volcano, and she hadn't noticed him come back in. She had leaned back away from their finished work when she suddenly felt a chill. She froze as it ran up her spine, feeling a presence - _his_ presence - behind her.

She got that feeling that one often gets when they enter a potentially dangerous situation; when the air changes, and the hairs on the back of their neck stand on end, as if the whole room is electrified, and they're just_waiting_ for the moment when they get shocked, burned, fried. She remembers distinctly the feeling of her neck hairs prickling as she felt his breath hit the side of her neck, moving up to her chin, her cheek, her ear. She was unsure what to do, so she stayed silent, still and unmoving.

Time passed, and as she waited for him to do something, she wondered if he wasn't exactly sure himself what he was going to do. And just when she was about to open her mouth, to ask what it was that he wanted, he spoke. His choice of words startled her, but their impact shocked her to the core.

"I'm sorry."

It took her all of two seconds to process the words, and almost immediately her walls crumbled. Her eyes welled, her throat constricted, her shoulders trembled. She let out the breath she'd been holding as the first tear fell, the careful barriers she'd built to protect herself over the years falling along with it. It wasn't the words themselves that moved her so - anyone can say they're sorry - but the way he had said them, as though he had really meant them. And as more tears and wracking sobs came, she knew that he was, indeed, really, truly sorry.

Another sob came, and she gasped, sniffling furiously at her suddenly loose nose. A pair of arms encircled her waist and she was slowly rotated around to face him, her tear-filled eyes obscuring him from view. Then he surprised her again. Swiftly but gently she was pulled to him, and as she buried her face in his shirt, she cried harder. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight, and she didn't object. They stood there for what seemed like forever, and he rubbed her back as she soaked his shirt, neither of them speaking.

After a while her legs grew weary, and she sunk to the floor, taking him with her. He pulled her into his lap, weaving a hand into her hair as he gently rocked back and forth, cradling her. By now her tears had ceased, and she concentrated on evening out her breathing. They sat together for hours - or what felt like hours - listening to the tick of the clock that rested on the wall. They remained silent, neither willing to break the sudden peace that overcame them.

She was too tired for conversation anyway, and even if she weren't she didn't know what she would say. It was getting late, she knew, and her parents were probably getting worried. But in truth, she didn't want to leave. She felt at peace; content, here, sitting on his bedroom floor. She felt a new wave of tears coming on, but this time of the happy kind. And in that moment, as she rested her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his back, nothing else mattered.

He was sorry.

* * *

End.~

* * *

**A/N: Not quite sure if I should have ended it here, but this feels right to me and I feel like it's long enough. I'll extend it if you want me to, but for now I'll just end it here.**

**Maggie's a lot weaker here, and Terry's a lot less mean, but like I said this is an alternate take on them (and totally OOC) so whatever. ****Do you think this counts as one of those fanfic off-canon warnings for a 'gentle!Terry'? Lol XD**

**I don't know crap about making an erupting volcano, or if that would even qualify as fair game for a high school science project (probably not) but whatever, it's done. **

**Anyway, I'll have Terry's POV up soon, and then it'll be finished.**

**Feel free to fave or review, or whatever it is that you do. Lol.**

**'Til next time,**

** Nikkette~**


	2. Him

**A/N: Chapter two. Basically just Terry's POV of the first chapter, so there'll be the same amount of breaks. Personally I prefer reading from the dude's perspective, but that's just me *shrugs***

**Disclaimer: I do not own Drillbit Taylor. Or G. I. Joe.**

* * *

Chapter 2: Him~

* * *

1.

He was seven and a half when he first saw her.

They were pulling up to their new house when he noticed her playing across the street. He stood by his parents as they began to unload from the moving truck, watching her curiously. He watched as she repositioned one of her dolls into an upright stature, and began pouring invisible tea into a plastic pot. He remembered feeling strange, almost entranced, as he observed the scene before him.

Then he noticed the little thing she was holding in her arms. It was soft and shiny and fluffy and it stood out from all the other toys crowded around her fake, imaginary table. And he wanted it. He didn't remember asking his parents if he could go to see her, just looking both ways before crossing the street. He does remember, however, eyeing the stuffed thing in her hands as he sauntered up to her.

As he crossed the street he became aware of how..._happy,_ she looked to see him. And that threw him off. He skidded to a halt just at the edge of the curb, suddenly feeling no desire whatsoever to be any closer to her than he already was. He had planned to...well, he wasn't really sure - he hadn't thought ahead that far. But he knew one thing; he wanted that plushie. She came to stand just in front of him, looking expectantly at him, and he saw his chance.

So, without thinking, he snatched the fluffy treasure from her arms and ran back to his parents to safety. He went inside to explore his new house, not looking back at the girl. Once he picked out his room, he went inside, shut the door and sat on the hardwood floor to examine his find. It was a stuffed bunny with ridiculously floppy ears, and he wasn't sure what to do with it now; he really didn't even want it anymore, now that she didn't have it. And it was pink.

He didn't like pink.

* * *

2.

It was his first day of school when he saw her next.

The teacher was introducing him to the class. He was looking at the children surrounding what would soon be his desk when he noticed her sitting towards the back. Her eyes were wide and her mouth shut tight, and he immediately thought back to the stuffed animal he had stolen.

He smiled.

* * *

3.

He saw her nearly every day after that.

He wasn't sure why, but he loved to pick on her. He would spend his days executing schemes and pranks, and his weekends thinking up more. He would give her noogies and tickle her until she cried and make fun of her looks and give her 'gifts' with bugs inside them. It wasn't that he hated her; it was quite the opposite, actually - he would even go so far as to say she was his friend. But he loved to poke fun, and there was no stopping that.

It was on the last week of May, he remembered, when everything changed. He had caught wind that her birthday was coming up. He spent the rest of the day wondering what he could get her; he didn't know what she liked, and at ten years old he certainly didn't have any money, but he still tried to think of something, anything, he could give her.

He was in his bedroom doing homework when it came to him. He had rested his head against his desk, tired from all the work, and gazed lazily over at the pile of toys in the corner. Then he saw it: the bunny. He didn't really want it anymore, but he was afraid that if he threw it away his mother would find it in the garbage and question him about it. And so it stayed, locked away in his room, for roughly three years.

He went over and picked it up, squeezing its tummy. It was old and worn - he had used it multiple times as target practice for his G. I. Joes - but he was sure that, even after all this time, she would still want it back. It was decided: this would be his gift. And so, without further ado, he scampered downstairs for the wrapping paper and tape.

When his mother walked him across the street to her house, he suddenly felt nervous. He wasn't sure why; he was sure she would like it. But he couldn't help thinking that maybe she wouldn't. Her mother answered the door, and as she exchanged words with his mother he peered into the room at her. She caught him staring and he, embarrassed, glared before looking away and hiding behind his mother's legs.

Her mother took his gift and shut the door.

* * *

4.

He didn't see her the next day.

He spent the entirety of his school hours wondering, worrying, hoping she liked his gift. Surely she would have been elated to be reunited with her childhood plushie. But maybe not. Maybe she would think it was stupid, or maybe she had gotten a newer, better one, and she didn't need it anymore.

Maybe.

* * *

5.

She wasn't there the next day, either.

Or the next. And as he noticed her absence at school, he also noticed how plain her front yard was, how empty and barren her house looked. He had just got home from school when he heard his parents talking - about her. Apparently she had moved away, and they were speculating on the best way to break the news to him. As he went to sleep that night, he thought, puzzled at what he would have to look forward to at school now that she was gone.

He wondered if he would ever see her again.

* * *

6.

It was seven years later when he would again lay eyes on her.

He was eighteen now, and he had spent the last seven years skimping by on school, friends, and life. He had his own car now, and his parents had recently gone on a business trip to China for a few months, leaving him to his own devices in an empty house. He should have been thrilled at the thought of the absence of parental control, but he found that, if anything, it just felt boring. The only thing that was half interesting was the new neighbors he was soon to have.

People had moved in and out of the house across the street for years, and every one of them never stayed for more than a year. He moved the curtains aside to look out the window at the moving van on the other side of the street. There were two adults, a man and a woman, and a young girl, probably around his age. They looked no different than any of the others that had moved in before them.

They would be gone soon enough.

* * *

7.

He decided to stay home from school the next day.

He figured that with his parents gone, this was something that an average teenager would do. He expected to feel happy or as though he had gotten away with murder. Or something. But in truth, it felt the same as any other day, just with a change of scenery.

The school bus pulled up, and he peeked out the window. The girl from yesterday - the one that had just moved in - was there, waiting at the curb. She was staring at the car, his car, that sat parked in the driveway. She then looked to the window he was staring out of, and he wondered if she could see him. The bus driver opened the doors, and she stepped inside.

He thought nothing of it.

* * *

8.

He saw her again the next week.

He was at school - in the library to be exact - and he was searching for a book on the Civil War. He began to round a corner when he noticed her sitting alone in a corner. Their eyes met, and she looked at him as though she were seeing a ghost. He looked at her coolly, not stopping as he rounded the corner into one of the aisles, breaking their eye contact. He didn't know her, and he couldn't understand why she had looked at him like that.

It unsettled him.

* * *

9.

He didn't see her for a long time after that.

He was curious, and wondered where she was from time to time, but he was in no position to track her down. He still noticed her in class from time to time, but outside the classroom she seemed to vanish without a trace. He never exactly looked very hard, but he never could seem to find her after class let out. He had his suspicions that it had something to do with their encounter in the library.

He wondered.

* * *

10.

It was a Monday when he noticed her again.

The teacher was assigning science partners for a big project - it would count for a large percentage of their overall grade, and would more or less determine whether or not they graduated. Her name was called, she stood up. He couldn't help but feel a strong sense of familiarity at the ring of her name; where had he heard it before? His name was called. He stood up, and sat down next to her.

They would be spending a lot more time together.

* * *

11.

He didn't see her for over a week after that.

He wasn't sure if it was because she didn't like him or they just kept missing each other. But in a public school, where hundreds of kids were forced to be around some of their most hated enemies, whether they liked it or not, the latter was rather unlikely.

He decided on the former.

* * *

12.

It was getting ridiculous, the lengths she was going to to avoid him.

He dedicated the rest of his free time into tracking her down. If they didn't start on their project soon, it would be too late, and then they would both fail. And he couldn't let that happen.

He found her in the library. He had to all but corner her into listening to him. As he told her that they needed to get started on their project, he noticed that she consistently kept her eyes on the floor. She listened, but she wouldn't look at him. Not once.

It irked him.

* * *

13.

They had finally come to an agreement.

She had proposed that they go to her house for the project; he agreed. He couldn't help but think she was strange; she was quiet - unnaturally so - and every time he tried to talk to her she kept her head down, refusing to look at him. The more he thought about it the more it annoyed him - the more _she_ annoyed him. But they needed to get this done. So he stayed silent.

But it only went downhill from there.

* * *

14.

Their first official study session went terribly.

She didn't have a scrap of material that could be used for the project, and they spent forever trying to brainstorm with little success. He couldn't stop from getting irritated with her quietness and lack of input. He couldn't even have an argument properly. By the time it was over, they had only come to a single agreement: what they were going to do for their project.

It would be an erupting volcano, dumb as it sounded. It was easy, plain and simple, and it was an almost guarantee that they would both graduate. But more importantly, he wouldn't have to spend a whole lot of time around her. It wasn't that he hated her or anything, he just figured it would work out better for the both of them if they didn't spend any more time around each other than necessary.

And that was fine with him.

* * *

15.

A week had passed without a hitch.

She still tried to avoid him at school, but he had found all of her little hiding places, and she soon learned that resistance was futile. Eventually it became routine: they would go through school together, he would flag her down to run something project-related by her, and they would meet up at her place later. They never had any real conversations, but it wasn't like he ever really tried.

Over time they grew used to each other, and he daresay they were now at a comfortable silence - a much appreciated step up from tense and awkward. She still wasn't any more talkative, and she still refused to look him in the eye, but rather than harp on her for it, he decided that it was probably nothing more than a silly quirk. Besides, he liked where they were at now, with their friendly mutual silences, and he didn't want to lose it. He could manage.

He simply accepted it.

* * *

16.

Unfortunately, things began to go south.

They were almost done with their project - 'almost' meaning that they still had to get the materials and build it - and she had - albeit reluctantly - agreed to his suggestion to finish it at his house. He told her that it was because he already had all of the supplies they needed, which was true, but in fact it was because he didn't like the way her parents looked at him, like he was the most vile thing on Earth. After he had sped home from school that day, he went upstairs to clean up his room. Granted, she probably wouldn't say anything, but the last thing he needed was for her to go home and gossip to her parents about how filthy he was.

It was nearly two hours later - far past the time it took for him to tidy up - when she knocked on his door. He had been in the middle of a game when she finally decided to show. He annoyingly swung the door open, and he noticed how scared she looked. He then realized how angry he probably looked himself - he would have apologized, but held back on account of her being so late. Instead he let out a sigh, and, stepping aside, let her inside.

It became apparent to him that she was quieter than usual, and she was keeping a safer distance from him than before. This angered him because it made him feel guilty for earlier. He led her upstairs to his room, then disappeared to get her a chair from the dining room. He came back, chair in hand, and set it beside his at their workstation: his desk. He motioned for her to sit down, and she visibly hesitated before taking a seat.

They worked for about an hour or so without incident, but it didn't last. She had been jotting down notes while he worked when she dropped her pen. It fell underneath the desk, and they both leaned down to get it. He got to it first, and as he picked it up he turned to give it back to her. It was then that he noticed something terribly amiss: she was looking at him.

His eyes widened. A lot. Aside from that first day at the library, she had never - _ever_ - looked at him. But that wasn't like this. In fact it was far different up close, a whole different experience.

Realizing this may never happen again, it took him all of two seconds to come back from his shock and practically rake his eyes over her face. He studied every feature, every inch of skin that spread over her skull, and put to memory the shape of her nose, eyes, lips, everything. She was actually quite beautiful. He wasn't sure why - maybe it was the way she kept her head down all the time - but he had always thought- _assumed_, that she was rather plain. He was very wrong.

His eyes landed back on hers, and it was then that he realized. A very strong feeling of familiarity came over him, and the more he stared, studied, observed, the more it became apparent that he had, in fact, seen her before. He looked at her and he recognized, _knew,_ who she was. Everything from his childhood years ago came flooding back, and with it, the memories of _her._ He continued to stare, and it was then that she panicked.

Abruptly getting up, she backed away from him, a panicked expression on her face, and without so much as a word, a signal, or even a gesture, ran out of the room. He dropped the pen, and everything hit him like a ton of bricks.

He sat there long afterwards, thinking about the girl he had known all those years ago, the pen long forgotten.

* * *

17.

She avoided him for days after that.

The only time he saw her was in class, and even then she was hard to spot. He gave her her space for those few days; he needed time to think things through himself. When those days were up, however, he had every intention of talking things over with her.

Even if he had to burn the whole school down to do it.

* * *

18.

After the sixth day he decided she had had enough time to herself.

He tracked her down to the library. She was in one of the back aisles, looking at a book. She noticed him almost immediately, and with his cover blown, he began to walk up to her. She looked as though she might run, or scream, or yell, and he hurried to catch up to her before any of those things could happen. He came to stand in front of her, and he noticed her hand shaking as she put back the book she was holding.

Suddenly he didn't know what to do. He wasn't sure what he should do or say, or if he should do nothing at all. She was scared to death, that much was for sure. What he decided on surprised not just him, but apparently her, too. He reached beside her and pulled out the book she had been holding, ignoring her flinch.

He examined the title. Jane Eyre. He remembered reading it for tenth grade. He briefly turned it over in his hands before handing it to her.

"It's a good book." He said simply, giving her a lopsided half-smile.

And with nothing more to say, he turned around, and left.

* * *

19.

When he saw her the following Monday, he had decided to make an effort to be as nice as possible.

He had given it much thought over the weekend, and he had come to the conclusion that the best way for her to forget about who he used to be and accept who he was now was for him to be as friendly and courteous as he was capable of. And so, when everyone was crowding into Science, and she was lagging behind, he executed his first of many good deeds: he held the door for her.

She looked suspicious, _very_ suspicious, and rightfully so, he supposed. But he had to prove himself, and she had to get to class. She accepted. As she walked by him with all the caution of an injured animal, he couldn't help but notice how nice she smelled. It was in that moment that he realized just how close they really _hadn't _been over the past few weeks - he didn't even know she _had _a scent.

And he was going to try his damnest to fix that.

* * *

20.

He kept up his gallantry very well.

He was rather impressed with himself. It took some mustering, but he found that it wasn't nearly as difficult to be nice (consistently so, that is) as he had previously expected. After he had held the door for her, it seemed as though he had opened one for himself, with all kinds of possibilities that had before been locked. Sometimes she would try to dodge his chivalry; she would be the first one to class so he couldn't hold the door, or act like she didn't hear him when he complimented her, or look away when he smiled at her. But he knew that, in reality, he was wearing her down.

It wouldn't be long now.

* * *

21.

He wasn't sure when, but somewhere along the line, something went wrong.

As the days progressed, she began to withdraw from his kindness. She would hesitate to accept any form of help he offered, and all of his efforts seemed to gradually have been put in reverse. It was then that he realized he was being _too _nice, trying _too_ hard. She was slipping back into her previous state of distrust, and it was all because he didn't seem genuine enough.

He had to fix it. He just didn't know how.

* * *

22.

He left her alone for a while after his realization.

He gave her three long days of reprieve from his presence. He decided to try and talk to her on the fourth day. He sat down at her table at lunch. He didn't say anything at first - he really didn't know what to say. After giving it some thought and coming up with nothing, however, he said the first (and only) logical thing that came to mind.

"What are we going to do about the project?"

She said nothing at first, and he wondered if she would even bother stressing her vocal chords on him at all.

"I don't know."

He visibly deflated with relief at her words; not so much the words themselves, but the fact that she agreed to speak at all. With this knowledge in mind, his next sentence came much more easily.

"We need to finish it."

For a second she looked as if she was going to bolt, and for a split second he panicked, but she regained herself as quickly as the look came, and she replied,

"Okay."

* * *

23.

They met up with each other every day after that to work on their project.

The atmosphere around them was far more peaceful, the tenseness all but dissipated, and he knew that they were on the right track again. They continued to meet at his house, an unspoken agreement between them, and he was surprised to find that she was okay with this. And in turn, that was perfectly fine with him.

They accidentally ruined their first miserable excuse of a volcano, so he had to buy all of the supplies all over again and rebuild it from scratch. It took them three days to get it just right. He was silently amazed at how fast they could work together when there wasn't any hostility hanging over them.

They were both putting the finishing touches on their newer, better volcano when it happened. She was checking everything over, making sure they had done everything right, when he left to go to the bathroom. He was washing his hands when he was suddenly hit with a pang of guilt. He thought of all the things he had done to her, all those years ago, and he suddenly felt awful, like the most vile thing on the planet. And when he thought about it, he guessed he was.

He stood there for a while, though it couldn't have been more than a few minutes, thinking about how no matter what he did, how nice he acted, or good he seemed, it would all mean nothing if he didn't acknowledge what he had done to her, and how lucky he was that she had tolerated him so far. It was ridiculous how guilty he felt all at once, all of the sudden. Maybe it was because he had put so much energy into changing who he was, into forgetting who he used to be. But none of that mattered now - what mattered was that he had treated a little girl terribly, and she was waiting for him in the next room. And he realized that, if nothing else, it was imperative: He needed to apologize.

He exited the bathroom, and moved to stand in the doorway of his room, hesitant to go in. She was standing right where he left her, looking over their project. Her back was to him, and he could tell that she hadn't noticed him yet. Slowly he entered the room, unsure of what exactly he was going to do or say. He came to stand just behind her, and after a moment she froze, and he knew that she knew he was there.

She stood frozen, and so did he. He wanted to back away, to take it back, reverse time, but he couldn't. He needed this. They both did. He leaned in closer, breath increasing slightly in panic at not knowing what he was supposed to do, and moved his lips up to her ear.

This was it; the moment that would make or break everything. He started to sweat in nervousness, trying to think of the right words to say. He swallowed.

"I'm sorry."

A second passed, and he was starting to feel a little bit better, that he had chosen the right words. And then she began to cry. Her body began shaking, and any sense of feeling like he had done right crumbled. He watched in a panic as she let out a shaky breath, and as another sob came he didn't know what to do. He stood there behind her, frozen in place, and it seemed like an age before it became obvious what she was expecting from him.

Slow and unsure, he wrapped his arms around her middle and turned her to face him. He pulled her to him, and she all but threw herself at him, burying her face in his shirt, the speed and strength of which scared him. He held her tight, and when she cried even harder he almost let her go, panicked at the thought that she didn't want him to. So they stood there, him rubbing comforting circles on her back and she soaking his shirt with snot and tears, both silent and unwilling to break what they had at the moment: understanding.

They held their places for a very long time, and after a while she was crying so hard that her legs began to shake - whether from emotional or physical wear, he didn't know. Slowly she sunk to the floor, and he was again surprised at her strength as she pulled him down with her. Again he was unsure of what to do - of what she would _want _him to do - but he knew enough to know that she needed to be comforted.

Hesitating for a moment, he reached out and pulled her into his lap, weaving a hand into her hair as he began to gently rock back and forth, cradling her. As the minutes passed she stopped crying, and he was relieved to find that her breathing was beginning to even out. They sat like that for hours on end - or what felt like hours on end - listening to the ticking of the clock that rested on the wall. They still hadn't spoken to each other; neither of them wanted to cut the thin wall of peace that surrounded them.

Even if they could speak he wouldn't know what to say, and he had a feeling that she felt the same way. It was pretty late by now, and he was probably going to catch hell from her parents for keeping her so long, but he didn't care. He felt far too content - at peace, even - sitting right there, on his musty wooden bedroom floor with her. And in that moment, as she rested her head on his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his back, nothing else mattered anyway.

She forgave him.

* * *

End.~

* * *

**A/N: I really hate fanfiction's document manager. I was on a roll with this chapter and I left for like, two seconds to go look at another tab. When I came back, I had to reload the page only to find that everything I typed had been deleted. And that makes me mad. **

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, even if only just a little. If you didn't, oh well.**

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